


Leave in Quiet

by Dee_Laundry



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Dark, M/M, Violence and Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-22
Updated: 2008-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:06:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee_Laundry/pseuds/Dee_Laundry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kitchen light was off as House walked in the front door of his apartment. He only had a second to wonder about this anomaly before the voice hit his ears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter takes place directly after episode 3-15, "Half-Wit"; spoilers to that point. Title and opening quote by R.E.M. Written for [](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/profile)[**karaokegal**](http://karaokegal.livejournal.com/) , in hopes of jumping the queue. Thanks to the ever-superb [](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/profile)[**daisylily**](http://daisylily.livejournal.com/) for beta and to QOP [](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_barks**](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/) for her expertise.

_I’ve everything to show  
I’ve everything to hide  
Look into my eyes, listen to the radio  
I turned up the radio – but I can’t hear it_

 _What are you saying? What are you playing?  
Who are you obeying day out, day in?  
Baby baby baby _baby_ \- that stuff is driving me crazy  
DJs communicate to the masses - sex and violent classes_

The kitchen light was off as House walked in the front door of his apartment. He only had a second to wonder about this anomaly before the voice hit his ears.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

He smirked into the darkness and shut the door behind himself. _That time again._ He normally lied in these cases, but on this particular night the truth was so pleasantly perfect.

“Out with the kiddies. Cold beer, warm laughter, pizza and camaraderie. You know how Chase’s accent deepens and Cameron’s cheeks turn rosy when they have a couple under their belts. Oh no, wait, you don’t.”

His eyes had adjusted just enough to see a form rising from the couch, moving quickly. The lamp flashed on, directly in his eyes, and in the time it took him to blink the spots away, the form was in front of him. A strong hand slammed into his left shoulder, and he jerked back, twisting his right thigh in the process. The pain lanced up and down, dull ache transforming into sharp jabs. As he brought his hands up to push back, he was stripped of his cane.

“Liar,” Wilson hissed, and smacked the wood hard into the side of House’s right calf.

“Not tonight,” House laughed, even as his calf began to throb in time with his thigh. He bent his left knee and tried to widen his left foot, to bear all his weight so he could stay upright as long as possible. “Tonight I followed somebody’s advice about pizza with friends and taking a chance. It was totally worth it – Foreman knows some of the best filthy jokes I’ve ever heard.”

He felt Wilson’s hands at his waist first, slowly but firmly grasping him, steadying him. Then Wilson’s body began to press into his: groin, thighs, abdomen, chest. Wilson’s breath blew hot across his neck, right along his shirt collar. House waited, heart rate rising, dick rising against the hardness thrusting shallowly against him. He thought for a moment that Wilson might be changing the rules of their game, but then a foot hooked behind House’s left ankle and yanked. Wilson’s hands flew away, and House went down, hard.

He swung his legs as he fell, hoping to pull Wilson down with him, but succeeded only in getting his shins stomped. Stretching backward over the couch, Wilson then shoved the floor lamp over, casting them into shadow. House struggled to rise, but was thrust back into the floor by Wilson’s left knee on his sternum.

“You son of a bitch,” Wilson exhaled, and grabbed House’s wrists, pinning them to the floor just above House’s head. “Do you know what I felt when I first heard you had brain cancer?”

House wheezed and gasped in a struggle to bring air into lungs compressed by Wilson’s weight. Wilson shifted his knee off House’s chest, digging it into House’s right side before finally letting it rest on the floor. He shifted back several inches, dragging House’s arms down with him, and sat squarely on House’s groin.

Taking a painful breath, House was at last able to reply, “You felt relieved.” He was rewarded for his correct answer by Wilson digging his fingernails into the healthy flesh just to either side of the scar on House’s thigh. Wilson then dragged the fingernails along, tracing the outline of the scar all the way down and then up again. The searing threatened to take House’s breath away again, and he fought to keep his eyes open.

“I was _glad_.” There was just enough light to see the reflection of Wilson’s teeth bared in a wide grin. “Finally, I thought. Finally House is getting his shit together, and doing what he’s supposed to do.”

Wilson was grinding into House’s erection, the press and release of weight setting a tempo for the throbs of pain pulsing out of his thigh.

“ _Finally_ , House is going to die.”

Wilson’s mouth descended swiftly on House’s. Their teeth clashed and House’s lip got caught in the crossfire. He barely felt the tear, but the blood tasted sweet. Wilson thrust his tongue into the gash, and then deep into House’s mouth, probing, stabbing, choking.

Just as House began to feel dizzy from lack of oxygen, Wilson pulled back. He reared up and then slammed back down into House’s groin. House began to curl up against the ache, but Wilson shoved his forearm across House’s face to smack House’s head once more into the hard wood floor.

“But you fucked that up, didn’t you?” Wilson’s voice was loud in House’s ear; his breath was hot on House’s ear and neck. “Just like you fucked up all those other times you could’ve died… _should’ve_ died. You’re a screw-up, Gregory House. Can’t do a damn thing right.”

Wilson was dragging himself down House’s body, muttering as he went. “And everyone makes it so _easy_ for you, too. I give you Vicodin, as much as you want, pills and pills and pills. Cuddy goads you off the Vicodin, shows you the pain and futility of your life, and you do _nothing_. Pathetic.”

House’s belt buckle clinked and clanked as Wilson roughly yanked it open. The zipper was next, the teeth digging into House’s belly through his boxers as it opened.

“You’re shot, twice, point blank. All you have to do is spill all your blood on the floor, no effort at all, and you can’t even do that properly.”

His hips were wrenched violently side to side as Wilson yanked down his jeans. House made no move to help; in fact, he used his rapidly fading strength to press his lower half into the floor and make the process as difficult as possible. The resulting scrape of rough denim against the skin of his ass was exactly the result he’d wanted.

“Then it’s Christmas time, I’m feeling generous, and I lead your feeble, pitiable detoxing ass straight to a big ol’ bottle of oxycodone. Let you know what I want with a silly ‘preferring people to pills’ remark.” Wilson bit the inside of House’s left thigh with a perfect pressure, just short of breaking the skin. Dragging his teeth, he pulled off but kept his head tilted for a moment toward the spot where the bruise was blooming.

“Drop off a pretty, pretty bottle of Maker’s Mark at your apartment, and let you do your thing. Call you three times to prompt you, fucking remind you, and you can’t even fucking overdose right!”

House’s boxers and jeans had bunched at mid-thigh, and Wilson bore down with his forearms, driving the compacted, stiff folds of fabric painfully into House’s muscles. Then Wilson’s head descended again, and it was the shallowest, loosest, driest blowjob House had ever received. Wilson didn’t bite but he was in no way careful with his teeth. House arched up, sucked in a long breath, and concentrated on not immediately coming. It was so, so difficult, and House did the only thing he could think of.

“Cameron!” he gasped.

The effect was immediate. Wilson jerked up, stalked forward on his knees – in the process trapping House’s arms tightly against his sides – and slapped House full across the face. “You are _never_ to call out that bitch’s name when we’re doing this.”

House looked up, past the hardness curving Wilson’s fly and into the eyes that were blazing hot just for him. “Not calling her name,” he panted. “Warning you.”

He swallowed and continued in a clearer voice, “She called me just before I got home and said she had my wallet. She was going to have another drink or two with Chase and then bring it by.”

Sensing Wilson was about to draw away, House grabbed at Wilson’s ass and pulled him closer. His lips ached to close around the bulge, but he had to wait for Wilson to let him, to force him. Instead, he panted hot, letting his breath caress where his mouth was not yet permitted.

Wilson denied House even this, tilting House’s chin up with a jabbing finger. “You’ll get rid of her, and then you’ll come to bed. We’re not _close_ to being done.”

“The last time she saw me like this,” House said, and choked as Wilson’s hand clamped around his larynx. He coughed and gasped for a moment until the pressure loosened enough for him to continue. “When she saw me like this, she forced her way in and bandaged my wounds.”

Wilson laughed deeply. It was a good laugh, a great one, with fire and passion, and not a bit of the false edge of his laughter earlier in the day.

“She thought _you’d_ made those cuts on your arm.”

“For endorphins, I told her.”

Wilson was pleased, House could tell. He knew because Wilson consented to bring his groin back close to House’s mouth. House breathed in deeply and imagined he could smell Wilson’s balls through his slacks.

“She’s not bright, not in the ways that count,” Wilson mused. He pulled away abruptly, ignoring House’s whimpers of protest. “But she can’t come in tonight, and you obviously cannot be trusted to prevent that.”

Wilson’s face dove suddenly near, and House stretched up toward him, begging silently for another kiss. “Too weak,” Wilson over-articulated; House stretched more desperately for a taste of those dancing lips. Wilson denied him.

And then Wilson denied him further by moving up and away, stripping House of the beautiful heavy pressure. Without that contact, House began to feel that he was floating, and the awful unmoored sensation caused panic to claw at him.

“Get up,” snarled Wilson, and House wanted nothing more. But his throat was closing and his muscles were on strike.

He managed to squeak, “My leg,” and Wilson took mercy on him.

Strong hands grabbed under House’s armpits and yanked him to a sitting position. “Useless,” Wilson spat, as he shoved his left shoulder under House’s arm and into House’s side.

Wilson’s sturdy arms surrounded House, embracing him, squeezing him, pulling him upright. “Weak and useless,” Wilson reiterated, as he jerked House’s jeans and underwear back up over his hips. House ducked his head and kept it low – it seemed obscene at that moment to present himself as taller than Wilson.

When House’s feet were fully under him, and his jeans were fastened enough to keep them out of the way, Wilson began dragging House down the hall. House did his best to keep up and tried not to stumble.

Then he was twisting, flying through the air, landing hard on his back on the mattress, and Wilson was there, every bit of him, covering House, heavy and secure.

Wilson crashed his mouth onto House’s, and House’s teeth began to ache. He thought one of Wilson’s incisors might have just scratched his gum. Wilson’s fingernails were digging everywhere, and the bursts of pain were sparks that flashed bright.

The loud knock at the door startled House, but Wilson seemed ready for it. “You will remain _silent_ ,” he ordered, before pushing off House roughly. He stretched for something over House’s head, and House was allowed for a quick moment to contemplate the lines of Wilson’s torso before his vision was blocked.

“ _Silent_ ,” Wilson hissed, and shoved the pillow into House’s face. House grabbed blindly for Wilson’s hand, to hold him there just one second more, but all he found was cold, smooth cotton.

No matter. House clutched the pillow and wrapped it around his head. He would be quiet, and Wilson would take care of everything. Wilson always took care of his House, always provided what his House needed.

House breathed deeply, slowly, and smiled, content.


	2. Un-See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place toward the end of Season Three.

Foreman's seen it, with his own eyes, and he can't un-see it.

It has no relevance to his life whatsoever -- House quickly proved oh so conclusively how unrelated the real world is to what Foreman saw -- but he can't shut the pictures off.

He saw the full-motion, live-action real thing, but what his brain spits back to him, at unpredictable intervals, are still photos.

He's in the lab with Cameron. She beckons him over to the microscope; he bends, settles his eyes, and instead of cells, he sees Wilson with his fist cocked, knuckles already bloody.

He's in the diagnostics conference room, sitting back and smirking at the ridiculous path Chase and Cameron have gone down in this differential. House snaps an insult and drags a marker across the whiteboard, slashing a thick black line that becomes the vivid red stripe up House's side, puffed out from his pale skin and dotted with pinpricks of blood.

He's in his bed, relaxed, music lightly playing and his eyes shut against the world. He's beginning to float, on the edge of the universe, and there's the head of House's cock, peeking out from under Wilson's shoe-clad right foot, which is planted in House's groin.

He's walking into the hospital. Cuddy greets him courteously, professionally, and hands him a file to review. He flips to the middle, to review the test results she's indicating, and the lines on the graph resolve into House's face. Content, adoring, blissful, happy.

Foreman can't un-see it.


	3. Nothing on the Radio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d never wanted Wilson to hate him, not once in this game that they’d fallen into. He wanted Wilson to be angry at him, but not to hate him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place directly after episode 4-16, “Wilson’s Heart”; spoilers to that point. Thank you to an anon friend for telling me what I needed to hear.

After failing to save Amber, he’d woken in the hospital bed not knowing what he would find.

He didn’t want Wilson to hate him. He’d never wanted Wilson to hate him, not once in this game that they’d fallen into. He wanted Wilson to be angry at him. Every insult House threw out, every petty trick, every time he used Wilson in ways tiny and huge – they were all deposits in the bank. Barrels dumped into the reservoir to stuff it full until the dam broke and Wilson spilled all that fury out over House, administered exactly what House wanted. What he craved. What he needed.

But he didn’t want Wilson to _hate_ him.

Looking into red-rimmed sorrowful eyes, House didn’t know one way or the other.

That scared the shit out of him.

* * *

Cuddy discharged him from the hospital after a few days. Wilson hadn’t stopped by to see him and wasn’t waiting with open arms (or clenched fists) when Cuddy helped him get settled back in his apartment. She offered to stay; he turned her down.

She insisted on staying; he raised a ruckus. The combination of bluster, threats, and a genuine statement of gratitude for her assistance confused her enough to get her out the door, which he locked behind her with a sigh.

 _What now?_ dream-Amber had asked.

Fuck if he knew.

* * *

It was... the next – a few – some different day when House awoke at 18:69, according to his clock. His head hurt, and his leg hurt, and his shoulder was screaming, but at least he was alive.

At least.

He trudged into the bathroom, head hanging low. Posture and stupor colluded to keep him from seeing what had happened to the bathroom mirror until after his pee and halfway through his tooth brushing.

It had been covered with a thick black cloth.

 _Oh_ , House thought. _Wilson’s here._

He finished brushing his teeth and gargled for good measure. He thought about changing out of his pajama bottoms and tee, but nah. Wilson didn’t stand on formality.

Except when he did. If that was the case now, he would let House know by bending his ear with an annoying, interminable lecture. Or literally bending his ear with vise-like fingers, if now was a time when they were doing this. If House had been more awake, he might have been able to say which one he’d prefer.

He made his way down the hall without his cane; bookcases held him up well enough. The TV was on, just at a murmuring volume. Wilson, sitting on the couch, had his head turned that way, but House could tell he wasn’t watching.

“Hey,” House called.

“Brought you a present,” Wilson replied, gesturing toward the large cardboard box on the coffee table. His gaze was still fixed somewhere in the direction of the TV screen.

House could see what the box was, even in the dim light of the living room, but headed to it anyway. After prying it open, he pulled out one of the bottles. “Case of whiskey. Much better than flowers or a bunch of balloons.”

“It’s just Jack Daniels,” Wilson replied, rising from the couch. “Not scotch, I’m afraid.”

“Couldn’t get Glenfiddich?” House asked as he turned toward Wilson, one hand still on top of the box.

Wilson slipped the bottle from House’s hand and cradled it in his own. “Didn’t like its shape,” he said, and clocked House in the temple with a corner of the Jack.

“Fuck!” House shouted and clutched at his head. He already had a crack in the back of his head; he didn’t need a matching one on the side.

“Not today,” said Wilson, and the bottle crashed down on House’s shoulder.

House had fear and suddenly realized will to live on his side; Wilson had a tidal wave of rage on his; House went down _hard_ , his right hip catching on the corner of the coffee table. A new divot to go with the old, but he barely had a second to think about it, because his right leg was being assaulted by an alcohol-filled brick.

 _Fuck_ , that bottle hurt, with edges and corners everywhere. House scrambled to get Wilson off him, away from him, but Wilson’s foot caught the inside of House’s left elbow and slammed that arm to the floor. Wilson’s other heel came down twice on House’s left wrist, _snap_ , _snap_ , rip of ligaments and the scream of bone on bone.

He had a moment to contemplate the pain as the man above him stumbled, stepped, circled. Then Wilson fell to his knees, shins across House’s right forearm, right knee cupped in the palm it was grinding into the ground, and the bottle of Jack came down again.

Not this, this was never what House wanted; this wasn’t good or safe or free. It wasn’t release; it wasn’t joy; it was only meaningless agony and the repeated thuds of a heavy bottle falling, pounding, Wilson’s eyes empty and distant.

House passed out then, awakening to gentle taps on his cheek. Brown eyes looked down at him with something that might have passed for concern if in the next second his nostrils hadn’t been filled with the sweet tangy odor of whiskey as Wilson doused him with it. Knee to shoulder, he was bathed in alcohol, the last few splashes hitting his face as the empty bottle went back to the work of pulverizing his leg.

House waited, all struggle gone, until the rhythm slowed, and then finally stopped. There was a new sound: the muted clank of glass rolling onto the rug.

“It was supposed to break,” Wilson murmured as his face cracked. His eyes screwed tightly shut but tears still escaped, drip-dropping onto House’s leg.

“Goodbye,” Wilson said, and pushed up off the floor.

House had been afraid before, but now he was terrified. Adrenaline fuelled him enough to get his right hand up and clasped around Wilson’s wrist. “No.” If Wilson left, that was it, the end, for both of them, boom, boom. “No. Stay.” He tugged and Wilson came down to the floor, quietly, passively, like a child on the cusp of sleep. Wilson’s cell was in the man’s back pocket; House pulled it out and then tucked Wilson’s head onto House’s shoulder.

He spent a minute listening to Wilson’s breathing, which was slow and steady, before punching Cuddy’s number into the phone and bringing it to his ear. As the adrenaline swirled away he struggled not to lose consciousness, struggled to stay awake and save them both.

“What?” Cuddy snapped, and House huffed out a laugh.

“Need help. My apartment.”

“I’m not coming over just to change the TV channel.”

“Hurt.” His head spun, and he had to stop for a moment.

“House? House?” She cared. Ha. He still had it.

“Ambulance.”

Clicks on her end – Super Administrator to the rescue. “What happened?”

“You’ll see.” He closed his eyes. So tired. But one more thing to say. “Cuddy, promise me.”

“Anything, House. Just stay with me. What do you want?”

“Put Wilson on suicide watch.”

“What?” Surprised her with that one.

Wilson’s breathing was still slow and steady; his body was completely still. But House would bet all he had – which was not much, true – that instead of sleeping, Wilson had his eyes wide open, staring into nothing.

“Promise me,” House insisted.

“I promise.”

House let himself fall.


End file.
